the stares were blank, the words were cruel
by Kadow
Summary: - 12x03: 'The Foundry' coda "These aren't my sons, Mary had probably said. My sons are children, sweet and kind and innocent, and I love them so, so much. These men are hunters, and I can't love that." [title from 'pete rose and babe ruth' by have mercy]


Dean didn't realize the mess he had made until he was huddled in the middle of it.

He faintly remembered stumbling to the kitchen, vision blurred, limbs heavy - _my safe place, nobody will find me here, nobody will bother to look, nobody will ask what's wrong it's safe and good and I like it there -_ with the sound of the slamming front door ringing in his ears.

With shaky hands, Dean grabbed one beer, then another, until his arms were half-full and he looked forward to getting drunk, to forgetting.

He settled in between the counter and the stove, as usual, where he fit perfectly, his back against one surface, his toes touching the other. He lined the beers up carefully, the labels a blur, but he didn't care about the brand today. He didn't care if it burned his throat on the way down or on the way back up, because that was the goddamn point.

He downed a beer as if his life depended on it but he felt the exact same, the anger and shock and numbness melding into one strange, unwanted presence, and everything was so incredibly _loud_. His breathing was violently distinct, the clock hurt his ears, a second bottle cap hit the floor like it weighed a tonne, because it sure as hell sounded like it. His clothes were tight on his arms and around his chest, practically suffocating him.

Dean wanted to scratch his arms until his clothes were no longer irritating, he wanted to rip every single hair off his goddamn head. He wanted to punch the walls and destroy the room around him until concrete covered the floor and he couldn't move from the mess he'd made.

Some time during this train of thought, Dean had risen, and although his arms were left mostly unscathed and his hair untouched, pots and pans littered the floor along with broken bottles of beer. There was a piece of glass stuck in his hand, and his knuckles hurt for some reason he had missed, but it felt good, and he was glad.

He didn't feel embarrassed for reacting in this way because his Mother had just left them, a choice she had made alone. She was here and gone in what seemed like minutes, and Dean hated it.

She hadn't mourned and grieved for thirty three years, she hadn't made up in her head what a mother is like, she hadn't been dragged into a life centered solely around avenging somebody she _never knew-_

If Dean had just _talked_ to Mary, helped her figure out what was going on in her head, things would've been better. She wouldn't have felt out of place, without belonging or purpose. She wouldn't have felt like an outsider beside her sons.

Or maybe, talking wouldn't have done a damn thing. Maybe she couldn't live with her sons, knowing they spent their lives doing something she despised. Maybe this was Dean's fault, because Sam had a normal life, a girlfriend and a home and a college to go to, but Dean had decided he couldn't hunt alone. Maybe Mary hated Dean for robbing Sam of his life.

Or maybe, Mary hated Dean because John died for him. John saved Dean with a deal and Dean knew, deep down, that Mary would stay for John, and John only.

 _These aren't my sons,_ Mary had probably said. _My sons are children, sweet and kind and innocent, and I love them so, so much. These men are hunters, and I can't love that._

Dean realized, then, that Amara was right. Dean needed Mary; but Mary sure as hell didn't need him.

And that realization knocked the wind out of Dean, and he was suddenly on his knees behind the kitchen counter, forehead pressed against the metal and hands gripping it. His breathing was shaky and his hand was bleeding but he didn't care, _why should he care? There was nothing left to care about._ The knees of his jeans were wet with beer from broken bottles, hot pulsing anger ran through his veins as he slowly hit his forehead against a satisfyingly solid surface. He covered his ears with his hands, nails leaving marks in his skin, but he didn't care, this was good, this was grief, this was a coping mechanism-

He was shouting before he knew it and couldn't stop. He didn't hear quick, desperate footsteps hurrying down the hall, some minutes later.

Dean didn't hear Cas stop abruptly in the doorway, eyes going wide.

In fact, he only realized Cas was there once he was pulling Dean away from the counter by the waist, grabbing his hands and pulling them down from his ears, getting rid of the glass and healing the wounds, calling out Dean's name in a vain attempt to calm him down.

Dean fought, of course; he pulled at Cas' hands and almost punched him in the jaw, kicking and pulling back.

' _Stop_ -' Dean's voice had an anger and intensity in it that Cas hadn't seen since the Mark of Cain, but that didn't lessen Cas' efforts to bring Dean back to himself.

Cas reached up and held Dean's face in his hands, murmuring reassurances. It was okay, he has a right to be angry, this is normal-

' _Stop,_ Cas.'

And with that, Castiel's mouth fell shut, because Dean didn't sound angry so much as broken and that wasn't to be taken lightly.

Dean let out a shaky breath and bowed his head before it collided with Cas' shoulder, his arms wrapping tightly around Cas' torso, and Cas returned the gesture. He kept one hand on Dean's cheek, the other entangling in his hair.

'How'd you know?' Dean mumbled against Cas' shoulder, voice wavering, breathing quick.

'Sam called me,' Cas said. 'He found you in here and said he couldn't calm you down, you weren't yourself. He was clearly also upset, but told me to go to you. I will check in on him later.'

Dean froze. Sam had found him, saw him like this, shaking and angry and upset and Dean hadn't snapped out of it. How could he let Sam find him like this? How could he not control himself enough to _close the goddamn door_ in the first place? He couldn't go somewhere _private_ to have his _mental fucking breakdown-_

'Fuck-' Dean began, and he tried to shout but a sob came out instead. He felt Cas' arms tighten around him instinctively and for the first time that day, Dean let himself cry, no matter how much he hated it.

When he felt he could, Dean spoke again, but neither man moved. The room smelled of beer and dish soap.

'She's gone.'

He felt Cas nod into his neck; _I know._

'It's my fault, Cas.'

Cas tried to pull back but Dean didn't let him. Instead, he slowly ran his hand through Dean's hair, a gesture he'd found calms him down. 'Dean-'

'No, don't you dare tell me it isn't.' Dean nearly shouted, but next he spoke, the words were barely there, practically melancholy. 'Sam was so- excited, he finally had his Mom, you know? He constantly looked at her like he was dreaming, and he was so frickin' _happy._ '

Dean paused, clenched and unclenched his fists against Cas' jacket.

'She's gone, and he barely knows her, and that's _my_ fault.'

Silence.

'We barely know her, we have absolutely _nothing_ to mourn.'

'That's not true.' Cas turned his head slightly, pressing a light kiss to Dean's shoulder. Dean either didn't notice, or accepted it without worry. Cas hoped for the latter.

'Yes it is, Cas. We never _really_ met her.'

'That doesn't mean you have nothing to mourn, Dean.'

And for the next few hours, Cas and Dean settled into the space between the counter and the oven, shoulder to shoulder, hands entwined, Dean's head resting against Cas' arm. Dean breathed him in as Cas told him stories about anything and everything in his memory and Dean smiled briefly against his coat, because it was _so unbelievably Cas,_ to sit here with him and tell stories of Heaven and Earth from centuries before, surrounded by cooking equipment and alcohol, with no intention of moving _._

So when Dean fell asleep, his hair ruffled and eyes red and puffy against Cas' trench coat, thoroughly in need of rest, Cas carried him to his bed. When Dean gripped Cas' shirt subconsciously, Cas collapsed onto the bed beside him and held his hand, murmuring meaningful, loving words he was too terrified for Dean to hear while awake.

And when Dean woke up awhile later, shaking and shouting and wondering where he was before sobbing against Cas' chest, Cas enveloped him in a hug that he hoped spoke the words he couldn't say.


End file.
